A Mighty Fortress (25 page)

My beard was gone.

I hadn’t seen my bare face in years. I’d kept a rough but short beard most of my time overseas, but I hadn’t seen it this short since I enlisted. The nurses had done a hack job with it. It looked like they took clippers to most of it and a real razor only to the area surrounding where I was shot. A patchwork of bandages covered my lower right jaw and that side of my neck.

When I was discharged, I’d told myself I’d wear the beard until I died. I never counted on a bullet to the jaw.

Holding my jaw, I snuck out and disappeared down the hallway.

I took a taxi to the courthouse. When I was getting in the cab, I saw that the driver had a Bible on the front passenger seat.
 
“Where to?” he asked.

I told him where I wanted to go. It took me a few minutes to ask him if I could see the book. “Of course,” he said, and handed it over. “You can keep it if you want.”

I told him that wouldn’t be necessary. I found the Psalms easily enough. I tried remembering the one Pastor Evans mentioned; I thought he said Psalm 46. I found that one. Other than the title, nothing sounded familiar. Then again, I didn’t know if I’d remember the song if I heard it again.

Just the organ.
 

The organ that sounded like thunder.

I read it again. And again. Slower each time. I’d read it six times by the time I got to the courthouse. And each time, one line stopped me:

He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear, he burns the shields with fire.

I wanted to believe that. But I couldn’t. I didn’t.
 

The cab slowed down. It was 8:45, and a long line of people waited to get through security. I’d have to wait my turn.

I handed the Bible back to the driver. “You sure you don’t want to keep it?” he asked.

“I have one at home.”
 

“I read that one every day.” It showed. His pages were thin and tattered.
 

“Then you should definitely keep it.” I gave him a twenty for the twelve-dollar fare, and told him to keep the change.

The scene was wilder than I expected. Dyer and McSwain were seated at the defense table, whispering to each other. Alexi stood at the lectern, his table bereft of counsel or any moral support. Seated in the galley a few rows behind Alexi sat Pilka and Jace. Pilka rested his head on a polished cane.
 

No sign of Wilcox.

To my right, behind the defendant’s counsel, sat Detective Shields and C-Rod, and to their right was Fred Mitchell. The detectives glared at me, C-Rod seeming amused, and Shields maybe appalled. It looked like everyone from the last hearing was here except Dane Parker.

And topping off the zaniness was Judge Sanders. He was seated at the bench, hunched over, his head down, resting on his hands, as if he were in devout prayer or nursing a migraine or both.

“What the hell happened to you?” A raspy voice whispered.

Somehow I’d missed Judge Pinkerton among the spectators. He was seated in the back of the gallery to my left. He wore a hound’s-tooth blazer, his wiry hair gelled back like a retro sculpture.

Verging on falling, I took a seat in Pinkerton’s row and slid over.
 

“You look like death,” he hissed.

“Feel about the same.”

Alexi was nearly shaking at the podium. The silence was getting to him. “Do you have any other questions, Judge?” he managed to ask.

Sanders finally looked up. “I guess not.” He looked to McSwain’s table. “Mr. Dyer, I can’t imagine you would oppose a continuance under these circumstances.”

Dyer quickly leaned over and whispered to McSwain. McSwain nodded, and Dyer stood. “No, Your Honor.”

Sanders nodded slowly, gravely. “Trial is continued. We’ll still reconvene Monday morning. I want an update then on the whereabouts of Mr. Wilcox.”

“Where’s Wilcox?” I whispered to Judge Pinkerton.

“He’s disappeared,” he whispered back.

That didn’t sit well with me, but I didn’t have much time to consider it. Dyer stood again and affirmed.

“Sure, Judge,” Alexi said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
 

Sanders glared at Alexi for a moment. Then he almost grinned, maybe just glad this was over for now. At least his day had cleared up. Then he looked to Dyer. “Submit an Order. Court is in recess.”

The Judge left as McSwain patted Dyer on the back. Getting the trial continued was obviously a victory for them. Pinkerton noticed it, too. “Someone’s happy the trial got continued,” he said.

I nodded and asked, “What the hell are you doing here, Judge?”

“Shouldn’t I ask you the same thing?”

Before I knew it, Shields was walking in my direction, and a bailiff followed close behind him. Just as Shields reached me, the bailiff was leaning over the seat in front of us to talk to Pinkerton.

“How you doing, Judge? Enjoying retirement?” The bailiff spoke to Pinkerton like a long-lost friend.

“I guess you could say that.”

The bailiff whispered, “Judge Sanders would like you to come on back, if you don’t mind.”

“Is that so?”

Shields was listening intently as well.
 

Pinkerton rubbed his beard a few times. “I don’t see why not.” He rose and followed the bailiff. On his way out, he glanced at me and gestured for me to call him.

Shields was still staring at Pinkerton when he asked me, “Who the hell is that guy?”

“Judge Pinkerton. You don’t know him?”

Shields shook his head.

I said, “We were going to use him as a trial consultant on the case.”

“A trial consultant?”

“Yeah, you know, to help pick the jury and all that.”

Shields nodded before he turned his focus on me. “What are you doing here, Porter? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

“Nothing that serious.”

I saw now that C-Rod was talking to Alexi, and it looked like it was getting heated.

“You know we’re going to have to talk to you about this?” Shields said.

“Yeah, I’ll let you know when I feel good enough to talk.”

“What do you say we get it out of the way now?”

C-Rod was leaning closer to Alexi, just shy of threatening him. I was hoping Shields would be able to shine some light on that and other things. I nodded to Shields. “So long as you give me a ride to my car when we’re done.”

Shields nodded back. “Deal.”

This time we met at their office: the good old Tampa Police Department, a few blocks away from Mitchell’s office. Shields drove me there in an unmarked Malibu. Brand new and clean. He didn’t bother me during the drive, and it felt like I was able to sleep a good ten minutes.

The sleep was light, and I knew when we’d stopped and he’d killed the engine. I opened my eyes and tried to get my bearings.

“You sure you don’t want the hospital?” he asked.

“I heard C-Rod checked in on me there last night. How nice.” I reached for the door. In the few seconds since he’d killed the engine, the temperature in the car had risen about ten degrees. A late morning sun blinded my side of the car, and tingled the skin on the part of my jaw covered by gauze.
 

Shields was already out of the car, watching me struggle to find my balance. “Yeah, he told me you two made some progress in your relationship yesterday.”

“I guess you could say that,” I said, as I leaned against the Malibu’s quarter panel. “Damn, it’s gonna be a scorcher.”

“It’s August, Porter. Every day’s a scorcher.” He looked at me, waiting to see how I handled the sun and heat, not to mention the humidity. A mist of sweat already covered my face, and I felt the bandage releasing from my neck and jaw. “Last chance for the hospital,” he said.

“Let’s see how I feel when this is over. But I’ll take coffee.”

Inside, he served me a cup in government-issue Styrofoam. He set it down with creamer packs and sugar. I took a sip. “This tastes pretty fresh for your department—only what, four hours old?”

“Sorry, I wouldn’t know. I’m not a coffee guy.”

“No caffeine?”

He shook his head. “I don’t need stimulants. I’m wired enough as it is.” Then he seemed to remember something and stood up. “And speaking of wiring.” He walked back to the wall and flipped a switch. “I’m going to be recording your statement. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you need to do, Lieutenant.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer present for this?”

I took another sip; the bitterness seemed to ease up with each one. “Why do I need a lawyer? Am I here as a suspect or a victim?”

“Those classifications are mutually exclusive?”

“Maybe not in the mind of the TPD.”

“More of a victim, Porter. C-Rod talked to the surgeon last night when he was checking in on you. Because we did ask the question, ‘Could you have pulled it off?’ You know—shot yourself to make it look like someone had shot you?”

A dull ache raced through my shoulder and jaw. I closed my eyes as my brain twitched.
 

“Hey, don’t take it personally, Porter. We have to eliminate every suspect.”

“Nothing personal, then. So what’d the surgeon say?”

“Well, you lucked out. I guess we lucked out, really, because the guy who operated on you, Dr. Dan Daniels—great name, isn’t it? Dr. Daniels, we use him a lot as an expert in homicide cases. So you were lucky to draw him, because we trust him a lot. So he said, first of all, the bullet that hit you was not fired at ultra-close range, as you’d have to do if you were going to do it yourself. No powder stippling. So there’s one in your favor.”

I nodded; so far so good.

“He also said it would be nearly impossible for someone to aim the gun at that angle for a self-imposed wound and hit the shoulder
and
neckline the way your hit did.”

“So you’re assuming he only fired at me once?”

He nodded. “We know that there was only one bullet. And it grazed you.” He paused. “I guess that might not feel like the right word to you.”

“I’ve been shot before, Lieutenant. That was a graze.”

“Fair enough. It grazed you and hit the wall in Wilcox’s office just below the window. We pulled it from the drywall and already matched your blood.”

“The same kind of bullet as you found in Kara?”

He nodded. “Exact match. A .44 slug.”

Something kicked in my stomach. “Guess I’m lucky it was just a graze.”

“Yeah, you’re lucky you were moving the way you were.”

“How do you know I was moving?”

“Doctor told us, by the graze.”

I nodded. “Any match on the ballistics?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Okay, Lieutenant. So I’m here as a victim, then, not a suspect.”

He glanced down, a bit guilty. “Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer?”

“I got nothing to hide, Shields. I don’t need a lawyer.”

“Good. Now, it would make C-Rod, and me for that matter, happy if you could just do one thing for us.”

“I hope you’re not asking me to perform for that thing.” I nodded toward the hidden camera.

“Depends on how you define
perform
. You see, C-Rod had some concerns. He seemed to remember you had some long-ass arms. He was just questioning whether maybe you could have pulled that off after all.”

“You want to see if I could have shot myself like that?”

He nodded excitedly. “Yeah. I mean, obviously no way you could have done it with your right arm. But your left arm, I don’t know. I don’t think so. But would it hurt too much right now to give it a try?”

I thought maybe he was joking. But he pulled out a drawer and produced a toy gun.

“That doesn’t look like a .44, Lieutenant.”

“Close enough for today’s purposes.”

I didn’t like where this was going. I sighed. “I guess. If it’ll help you cross me off the suspect list.”

He sprang out of his seat. “Exactly.” He handed me the toy gun. “Now let me know if this hurts too much.”

I took the gun in my left hand, pointed my elbow at the ceiling, and moved my forearm in different directions. “How’s this?”

Shields was looking at me like a movie director. “Alright, now give it your best shot, Porter. Let me see you try to aim at your shoulder and neck.”

I did what I could. Shields approached. “Now, let’s see if you can aim the gun a little higher.” He tilted the angle of the gun. “Now, can you raise your right shoulder and scrunch your neck down a little?”

I tried moving. It was painful. I winced.
 

He winced too. “Sorry, I see that hurts. Just try to hold that, but move the gun back as far as you can now, away from the contact with the flesh.”

I moved it back a little bit. As far as I could. He studied me for a minute. Then he took the gun out of my hand. “I’m sorry for that. But that helps a lot, Porter.”

“So did I pass?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re fine. I’m sure you’re fine, Porter.” He took back his seat facing me. “So let me ask you, what the hell were you doing there last night?”

“Kara called, wanted me to see something.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure. I never saw it.”

“What’d she say it was?”

I let out a deep sigh. After my meeting with C-Rod the day before, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to divulge any information to anyone working with him. “Nope.”

He frowned. “She didn’t give you a hint?”

“To be honest, Lieutenant, I don’t think she wanted to show me anything at all.”

His eyes glowed. “What do you mean?”

“You know, I think she was just lonely. Wilcox was out, you know?”

He grinned. “So, you two, you had it like that?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I just got the feeling she wanted to. I will say I think she was afraid to be alone last night.”

He shook his head with mock disbelief. “Damn. I guess she had reason to. Don’t feel bad about it, man. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, Porter. I’m just trying to make you feel better. Besides, at least it sounds like she’s going to pull through. Or at least it sounds more likely than it did at first.”